I'm Back, John
by Unaccompanied.Minor14
Summary: Post-Reinbach, reunion fic. "You are brilliant...a genius, maniac...now get out." "...John?" "You heard me. GET OUT." Rated T for Johnlock. 3


**I've spent much of my time in recent days trying to picture exactly how the reunion between our two favorite men would happen, and using my deductions and trying to stay as spot on to each character's personalities, I've come up with the following. Enjoy!**

**Note: I don't own Sherlock or Benedict Cumberbatch *sadly* Or Martin Freeman or anyone.**

* * *

**I'm Back, John**

"SHERLOCK!" I screamed, watching in horror as the black coat billowed out from behind my friend…my only friend… as he fell, fell from an impossibly high building.

He was always falling. Always, always falling, down and down. And I would start running, running as fast as I could. But always, _always_, I woke up before he hit the ground. I would wake up in a cold sweat, tears running down my face, the ghost of a scream, echoing "SHERLOCK" throughout the empty flat as shudders shook my entire body, my stomach contracting as I heaved, helpless. Nothing ever came up; not anymore. I was smart enough not to eat past four now, and then my stomach would have nothing to bring up. Instead, I would choke, gasping, and roll over and hold my head in my hands until the spasms stopped and I could lay down and watch the lights outside my window, until the sun rose slowly…ever so slowly…over the rooftops. It was like my dreams of the war, which used to come back to haunt me, all those years ago, before my friend, waking me up in the middle of the night. But now, they were twice as vivid and much more painful.

The first few months, Mrs. Hudson would come bursting in, hearing my screams in my sleep from the flat just below mine. She'd waddle in as fast as her legs could carry her and turn on the light, shaking me until I woke up, then sitting and patting my hand until my violent, choking sobs subsided and I pretended to sleep. It was like having a mother by my side once again. Once, I opened my eyes to see her only crying, tears rolling freely down her face, until she covered her mouth and left.

She doesn't come in anymore. I see her only in the mornings, where we have coffee in the café next to 221B, Baker Street. Sherlock had had a liking for the cheese Danish they served there, unknown to me until very shortly before his death. But I could never order one. Instead, we'd sit, and drink our coffee, black, until it was time for work. Work, then come home, avoid dinner, go to sleep, and begin the cycle again, beginning with my helpless cry "SHERLOCK."

But tonight was different.

He was falling…falling…and I was running, running, as fast as I could, my legs carrying me as fast as my Army training had taught me, to move across the battlefield to carry the wounded to the medical tent. But it was never fast enough.

And this time, I didn't wake up.

Sherlock's body hit the ground. I skidded to a stop. No. It was replaying in my head all over again. I stopped, stumbling to his side and, falling to my knees, screamed "No, oh God, please, oh God no…" The horror of that day, nearly 3 years earlier, were replaying themselves in cruel clarity, as blood poured over my hands as Sherlock's lifeless eyes looked up at me, that clear blue hard and cold.

"Sherlock…"

"John! John! John!"

"SHERLOCK!"

I sat up quickly, screaming helplessly, as a hand caught my nightshirt in the front and prevented me from sitting up and knocking heads with the person sitting on my bed. My eyes were blurred with tears as I gasped, trying to see in the night.

And then…. "…John."

It was spoken softly, as he'd always said it when we were talking. My heart, already pounding with my stomach, nearly froze. As my eye's adjusted, I nearly fell out of bed. He caught me again.

"Sh…sh…Sherlock," I gasped. "You…bastard…what…"

And, as he did so well when he was alive, he was up and gone, before I could blink. And then it hit me, like a train on a cold day. My imagination was playing tricks on me. I lay back as I tried to control my breathing, too shaken to cry. Of course. He was dead. There was no doubt there. My miracle wasn't coming. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

I lay in my bed, curled on my side like a young girl, as the sun slowly came up.

And with it, I dragged myself out of bed and dressed in my work clothes, pulling my shoes on and glancing at the violin case leaning against the bureau by the door. I dared not open that violin case. Instead, I left the instrument as he'd left it, and cleaned only the case, every so often, keeping it clean and soft. As I slowly stood, I stopped and looked closer at the case. It was titled slightly, as if someone had begun to grab it but then stopped and left it.

"Stop it, John," I scolded myself, grabbing my hat and mobile phone from my desk. I was seeing things, clearly.

Mrs. Hudson was out of town this week, visiting a sister in Greenwich who was recovering from a stroke. So, instead of forcing down a breakfast, I took my coffee to go and hailed a cab. "London Police Office, please," I murmured, climbing in and clutching my warm coffee in my hands.

I worked for Lestraude now, helping to investigate crime scenes and determine causes of death. A few of Sherlock's skills had, miraculously, rubbed off on me, and I was able to deduce a cause quickly and accurately, with few details of how it occurred. Of course, it was nowhere near the skill that he himself possessed. But, then again, only one other man had held that skill. And he, too, was dead.

As soon as I entered the building, a smile was plastered to my face. Everyone in this building thought I was fine. Well, not fine. But alive, at least, and functioning. That was something I could pull off easily. My work, my job, brought back that little bit of familiarity, that sense of belonging, and I was eager to help in any way I could. Life was like being back on the battlefield that I'd so missed; avoiding the landmines which could set me off, keeping the peace when there was panic, and fixing things that were already broken. The only ones who knew about my nightmares were Mrs. Hudson and Molly. Molly, it seemed, was the only one who I could talk to, who would sit and listen gently, in her gentle, clumsy way, though there was always a look of guilt in her eyes.

Try as I might, however, I couldn't shake the apparition of Sherlock from my mind. I was in somewhat of a stupor as I sat at my desk (no calls came in that day) and tried to push it away from my mind. It had seemed so real, that he'd woken me up and then disappeared.

But that was crazy. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

The day passed slowly. It was a welcome relief when, at five o'clock, I clocked out and hailed another cab. These days, everything seemed automatic, and stiff. The cab driver peered suspiciously at me as I paid with a large bill and asked for no change. Perhaps it was because, deep down, I could feel myself giving up. I let myself into the flat, and into the kitchen. The sitting room, of course, was off limits to me. I couldn't bear to look in. The yellow spray painted, bullet riddled smiley face was still on the wall, mocking my every step.

The cat meowed as I walked in. I'd found him, shortly after Sherlock's death, half his ear torn off with a broken paw. I'd taken him home and fixed him up, given him some cream, and tried to send him on his way after the paw had healed and I'd removed the split. But, the damn thing had grown attached and had made himself at home. I hated to admit it, but the presence of the creature made the flat seem less unbearable.

I couldn't bear to leave 221B. It was my home, more than any other place had been. Much of Sherlock's stuff was still in place, besides the science stuff Mrs. Hudson had donated to the university. I'd left most of it untouched, including Irene Adler's phone tucked away in the drawer in the sitting room. The sight of that nearly made me break down, once again. But I was stronger now, and was able to live almost normally again.

It had, however, been a long time before I could bear to step inside. It had been mostly for Mrs. Hudson's sake that I'd moved back in, after 6 weeks of living in a moldy hotel room, staring at my ceiling most of the day, seeing Sherlock falling, replaying that day in my mind, until Mrs. Hudson had come to visit me, and asked me to come back to the flat, for no charge. She was sad and lonely without the pair of us, she'd said, and knowing I was at least there would help ease her sadness.

I gave the cat, nicknamed Picasso, some cold chicken from the fridge and wandered into the hall. As I crossed the threshold into my room, a sharp, brisk knock on the door startled me. Blinking, I walked down the steps and yanked open the door. And stopped short.

He stood there, taking up most of the space in the doorframe, standing very close to the door and looking down at a phone in his hands. He looked up as I opened, and his blue eyes widened slightly.

"I…I….Mrs. Hudson…I expected her to be…"

I stopped and looked at Sherlock. "Oh, bloody hell," I fussed, and turned and walked into my flat, leaving the door open. This was it. I had lost it. It had gone from nightmares to actually seeing him. Was I never going to forget the bastard?

"John?" It sounded so much like him. His voice floated up behind me as I walked back up the stairs. The door closed with a click, presumably the wind. I almost even heard his footsteps behind me as I walked into the kitchen.

"I'm losing it," I announced to the cat, who pricked his ear up and looked at me. "I'm…." I laughed wildly. "I'm actually losing it, I'm seeing him in broad daylight. That's it, I'm going to bed." I grabbed the bottle of sleeping pills and a book from the table and started for the sink to grab a glass of water.

"John?" He appeared in the doorway behind me as I leaned against the counter, pressing my palms into the side of the table. "John…don't be ridiculous, it's me…I'm here." I could see the dark outline of his coat and his scarf (I swear he stapled the thing to his clothing, there was hardly a moment that he didn't have it), standing meekly in the doorframe. "I'm back, John."

"No you're not BECAUSE YOU ARE DEAD." My voice rose to a shout as I looked over my shoulder at the apparition. God, my imagination had gotten him spot on, except that he was paler, with dark circles under his eyes. Otherwise, it was same old Sherlock. "YOU FELL. And you LEFT me here. You are DEAD." I stopped, panting. "God, just make it go away," I pleaded, looking up at the light fixture above me. "Just please…"

"John, stop." A hand touched my shoulder, long, pale fingers gripping my firmly. "Try to take a breath. I'm here."

Then it hit me. Like a knife in my gut, the realization hit me. And with it, a rolling cloud of anger.

"You asshole," I whispered.

"What?"

"YOU ASSHOLE," I screamed, whipping around and shoving Sherlock back into the wall. He seemed to float, no attempts to catch himself. "YOU BLOODY ASSHOLE. YOU LEFT. YOU WERE DEAD. YOU LET ME BELIEVE YOU WERE DEAD!"

Sherlock avoided my eyes. "I didn't think you'd stay here…"

"Where else would I go?" I hissed. "Where else could I even afford to go? I'm lucky enough Mrs. Hudson let me stay, I barely make enough to pay for rent. And I'm sure you're fine," I continued, gesturing to his clothes, still as dark and extravagant as when he'd….well, fooled me, I suppose. "You seem to be getting along just fine!"

"John, I…" He hesitated and looked up. I stopped short, catching a breath. I'd never seen Sherlock like this. His face was drawn with misery, lines of sadness carved into his previously marble forehead. He looked like man subjected to years of torture. Guilt lined his face. He showed more emotion then I thought capable of Sherlock, even when he was acting. "I'm sorry…Please, let me explain, John, I…I didn't mean to hurt you."

The rolling cloud took over. As Sherlock looked up, my arm snapped out. I slammed my fist against his face and let all my power rock into him. He stumbled and fell back into the hallway, again not catching himself. He sagged to the ground and looked up, only in time for me to jump on him and begin to beat him with my fists and grab him around the neck.

"Didn't. Mean. To hurt. Me." I repeated through clenched teeth. "I'm bloody sure you didn't! I only saw my friend…my best friend, MY hero, jump from a roof to his DEATH. DEAD. Dead, Sherlock, you were dead. I was there. If that didn't hurt enough, I couldn't get to you fast enough. Hurt, Sherlock." Sherlock gasped, and tried to wiggle from under me. I pushed him back down. "Hurt is for a broken heart. No, you left me out to dry!"

"John, please," Sherlock croaked, grabbing at my wrist. "Let me at least try to explain, without all this…sentiment and this emotion." He coughed. "Yes, I was dead, but now I'm back and if you don't get off of me, your best really will be dead! Just…let me…explain."

I looked down at him and with an angry snarl pushed myself off his chest, not without giving him a good kick. Sherlock grunted, rolled over and held himself, coughing as the pressure from his neck slowly receded. My knuckles were bruised now, but that didn't compare to pain I felt as my heart pounded inside my rib-cage. This man was alive, after I trusted him, begged him to come back, but he'd let me believe he was dead. My best friend.

Sherlock sat up, rubbing his neck. "I see you still have that 'I've killed people' idea in your head," he said, his voice hoarse. "Doctor, pah." He slowly stood up, and I resisted the urge to punch him again. "Now, John, if you would be so kind as to refrain from hitting me until I've finished speaking." He gestured to the sitting room. "Come along then."

Before I could answer, he'd opened the door and strode in, as naturally as if he'd just left yesterday. Which, when he stopped short and stared, I'm sure it felt like. I hadn't touched the room, not even to dust, since he'd left. I'd wandered in and out a few times, but in recent years hadn't so much as glanced at it. The memories were too painful, too real.

Sherlock looked around. I crept in around him and kept my eyes down. When he sighed, I snuck a glance at his face, and stared. It was a mixture of sadness, guilt, and familiarity that people get when they remember happy memories. All in all, it was an un-familiar sight. He looked around, his lips pressed tightly together, and took a tentative step forward.

"It's like I never left," he breathed. "You…didn't even take my stuff out." Sherlock looked around again, and hesitantly went towards his chair to brush his fingers along the top. "My goodness John, I thought you hated my interior decorating ideals. The smiley face, at the very least…" he looked up at the bullet ridden wall, a ghost of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, well," I cleared my throat, shoving my hands in my trouser pockets and looking at my shoes. "It's not…like I wanted it to change. Nor could I ruddy be in this damn room much, either, Sherlock." I looked around, taking in the sight that was once so familiar and now so unnerving. It really was as if nothing had changed.

Sherlock wasn't listening. He stared at the small desk and hesitantly opened the drawer with Irene Adler's phone inside it. Taking the small device out, he held it in his hands and sighed. "The Woman," he murmured ruefully. "Back when days were easy, eh, John?"

I didn't say anything. Sherlock's face was relaxed, easy. It was strange-normally when he'd talked about Adler, his face was closed, reserved, a sad look in his eye. Now, he chuckled and put the phone back, carefully shutting the drawer. "Shall we?" he gestured to the chairs. I nodded and carefully sat down in mine. A little layer of dust covered it, but the same old chair greeted me like a friend. Sherlock slowly sat down in his, and began to bring his legs up to tuck close to him, but with a quick glance at me, sat like a proper gentleman.

"Well now," he sighed, and cleared his throat. "Where to begin?" As he fumbled for words, I took in his face. At first glance, not much had changed about him, other than a few wrinkles about his eyes and mouth. Then I began to study him closer. They weren't laugh lines-wherever Sherlock had been, it was obvious he had frowned often and smiled little. There were dark circles under his eyes, evidence of little sleep in the past few days, and there was a shadow like cloud of misery in his eyes that seemed to frame his face. The cheerful (if not stoic) face of Sherlock Holmes was no more—here he was, and yet, he wasn't. He was different. It was like he had faced these past years with heartache, misery, and depression, leaving permanent lines in his face that made him seem, when studied closer, positively ancient. This didn't change the fact that I was still furious with him.

A few things remained. His hair fell across his forehead the same way, curly and dark. His eyes were still a bright, clear blue, which were complemented by his eyebrows knitted together as he brooded on what to say. His scarf and coat were tied together in the same manner, though looking slightly more frayed then I remember, and I had noticed, when he was looking about the room that his eyes still light up in the same frenzied excitement.

He noticed me staring, and a smile quirked up the side of his face. "Am I different to your eyes, then, John?" he asked in a low voice, honest curiosity coloring his tone. "Am I no longer your friend?"

I sighed and sat back. "You're different," I nodded. "But, you're still there, I'm afraid. Bastard, you are." I clenched my hand into a fist and looked down at my bruising knuckles. "Well, then, aren't you going to start talking?"

Sherlock sighed and pressed his hands together into his prayer-like thinking position, and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he spoke, there was an emotion I'd never heard him have in his voice. It was, without a doubt, guilt.

"Moriarty had…a web of followers. He was cunning and clever, and they followed him without question, without a second thought. When we were on the rooftop, he told me that they were all following me because I had the code that could access any computer hidden on me." He looked up, as if to make sure I was listening. "It turns out, however, there was no such code."

"No such code?" I protested. "But then, why—"

"Really, John, you still haven't learned not to interrupt me?" Sherlock snapped, then composed himself. "Sorry. Really. But yes, there was no such a code. Moriarty had helpers in his web that allowed him to pull off the robberies which ended him in court. And, it was that same web that helped to have him be cleared from the case and let off. But there's more…" He trailed off, and bit his lip.

"But that doesn't explain why you did what you did," I interjected, feeling my anger rise again. "You aren't a fake, I never believed it for one second, and you had no reason to kill yourself. Do you have any idea what you put any of us through? Mrs. Hudson, Lestraude, Molly, even Donovan…there was all something missing for them."

"And not for you?" The question was sharp, making him sound like he was almost hurt. He didn't wait for my reply, however, and continued. "Moriarty was weaving a story. He really was like a story-teller, which is why I think those ambassador's children screamed at the sight of me. He must have brain washed them into believing I was some kind of monster." He shook his head. "And…his final story was…me."

"You?"

"Yes. He wanted to ruin me, John, and ruin everything I'd done. He had succeeded up until I called his bluff on the roof of Bart's. The ending, you see, was for me to die, in disgrace, and take my own life." He stopped and stood up, his old habit of pacing coming back into play, his hands pressed together yet again. I watched as he strode back in forth a few times.

"It was brilliant, really," he said after a few tense moments of silence. "I was to die, to take my own life, in disgrace, and his story would be complete. He knew, however, that I wouldn't just jump. He had to threaten me."

"Threaten you?" I repeated. "But what did Moriarty have against you that could possibly…." I trailed off as Sherlock spun around, staring at me intently as the puzzle pieces clicked in my head. "Oh…" I breathed, and sat back.

Sherlock's eyes were wide with manic intensity. "He was going to kill you, John. He was going to kill you, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestraude." His voice trembled. "He was going to take away my only friends in the entire world. Even if I lived, it would have been as if I'd died. I couldn't let that happen. He had snipers trained to you the very second I stepped onto that ledge." His voice was trembling now, and his eyes brightened with what could only be tears. He stopped, closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. When he opened them again, he spoke forcefully, but with awe. "It was…brilliant, John. Everything that he planned could only lead in my demise. If I'd just walked off that building, you'd be dead. Truly dead."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I was utterly speechless, not only at the plan of James Moriarty, but at the sight of Sherlock, who appeared to be so near losing control. Finally, I managed to croak out "…how did you do it?"

Sherlock began his pacing again. "It was…relatively simple, actually. I had help from Molly. I'd guessed that Moriarty wanted me dead, and that he couldn't be the one to do it. I had to die in disgrace, so I told him to meet me on top of Bart's, where my suicide could be easily faked."

"Molly?" I stuttered, flabbergasted. "_Molly? _Molly knew you were alive this whole time? She helped you? Bloody…" I stood up and put my head in my hands. "I've been talking to her this whole time and _she knew_?"

"She told me, too," Sherlock said softly. I looked up, only to meet his piercing gaze. "She told me everything you said…"

I sighed and looked at the ceiling. "Brilliant," I muttered. "Bloody brilliant. You do realize you owe me an apology, right?"

"And you'll get one," Sherlock looked down. "In due time…I'll find a way to make it up to you. May I continue?" Without waiting for my confirmation, he spoke again. "Molly was waiting in the morgue, a few stories up, just under where I'd fallen, waiting for my signal, which would go off after I threw my phone down, sort of an automatic reaction. When I jumped, you could only see me fall. There was a building in front of you, yes, that blocked the sight of me hitting the ground."

"Yes but I heard—"

"You heard Molly throw another body out of the window in timing with my fall. After I'd disappeared behind the building, you didn't see what had happened next. That low building disguised a rubbish truck that was, fortunately, full of garbage bags which I jumped into." He stopped and rolled his eyes. "Needless to say, it still hurt. Molly timed it so well, I could have kissed her, that she pushed the cadaver out the window to hit the ground the same time I would have."

"Yes but the blood, Sherlock," I interrupted again. "There was so much blood, and you had no pulse…"

"Honestly, John," Sherlock snorted. "Could you have gotten a pulse in that much tension?" He shook his head. "No, of course you could have, you're a war veteran." He looked at me where I stood and smiled again, then went on. "My friends in the homeless network knew of the plan. After I jumped out of the truck, they grabbed the body and put it back into the truck. As the crowd you saw gathering around grew nearer, you were hit by a cyclist, correct?"

"Yeah, the bloody idiot," I muttered, remembering the bump I'd received. "Gave me quite a bump."

"It was all for purpose, John," Sherlock sighed. "The crowd needed time to make the crime look believable. I had a small cut on my face, curtsy of Molly, and while that was gushing blood, I still had to look as if I'd really fallen. They took the blood and made it convincing, and just as you ran up, it was complete." He stopped and glanced at me. "And as to the question of my pulse, you'll remember the small rubber ball I had in my possession? I put it under my arm and held it there, thus blocking my pulse. And, voila…I was dead."

Silence rang out in the flat after his words faded. I stood and stared at him, dumbfounded. This man was truly brilliant. "Brilliant," I breathed. "You are a genius. A maniac, but a genius. Now get out."

Sherlock stopped still and stared at me. "….John?"

"You heard me," I stood up taller, finding my voice. "Get out. Get the hell out of my room, get the hell out of my flat, and get _the hell_ away from me." My anger had returned and was pounding in my ears. "You let me believe you were dead, for so long. I've been able to establish a life now, Sherlock, and I don't want you back in it to mess it all up again so you can leave." Lying to him was a lot easier than lying to myself, I sadly was able to discover.

"John, I…"

"I WAS A WRECK," I screamed, a floodgate of emotions opening. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT MY LIFE WAS LIKE?" I took a breath, and continued. "Before I met you, I had nothing. You gave me such a life that I felt like I belonged again. I missed my life, I missed being on the battlefield and knowing I was serving a purpose. Before you, I felt helpless; I was ready to _die, _Sherlock. And then you came along and gave me a place again and I was happy. _And then you took it away again. _I couldn't even stay in this flat for months until Mrs. Hudson had to _beg _me to move back in. And you will NOT be messing up my life again!" I stopped, chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. Sherlock stood dumbstruck, his mouth literally hanging open.

"John, don't you get it?" he whispered, and I took a step back when I realized there were tears running down his face. "Don't…don't you see? I had to do it. I had to…it was all for you, John. I couldn't watch you die, I couldn't live with myself." He clenched his hair in his hands. "I…I don't know how to explain it, I had to die, I couldn't bear…"

"But you could let _me _die. You let me suffer, Sherlock," I kept my voice low, trying to keep my emotions in check. "I had to live without you. You were my best friend. You could have told me!"

"Who would have believed I was dead? The snipers, they had to _believe_. I'm trying…I'm trying to make you understand what I felt, just give me a second…"

"Get out," I repeated. "I don't care, just please, get out. I don't understand what you're saying and I don't want you here. Please. Go."

"John, I…"

"GET OUT."

Sherlock groaned. "John, for goodness sake…" And then, with a fluid movement, he stepped across the room, hand outstretched. Before I could react, his fingers were at my cheek and suddenly, he pressed his lips against mine.

A shock when through my body as my mind registered what was happening. But, before common sense could kick in, I stopped it. I closed my eyes and kissed him back before I could register what I was doing. It was madness, it was, it was insanity, deranged, and yet, something felt right. My heart sped into maximum overdrive and suddenly I just wanted him close.

That endless moment ended up being only that…a moment. He pulled back and even though the kiss hadn't been very long, we were panting. He pressed his forehead against mine and dropped his hand before stepping back to look at me, his eyes wide and cautious.

I blinked as everything settled around me. I had just kissed Sherlock Holmes. Oh, God, now people would _really _start talking. "Uhm..." I stopped and pressed my lips together, and look up. "That…that was…I…what was that exactly?"

He didn't answer, only stared. Then, after a painfully long pause, he spoke again. "When I was standing there, John," he said, his voice thick with tears. "When I was standing on that roof, and I saw you looking up at me, all I wanted was to run down and hold you and tell you it was okay. I reached for you, trying to see if maybe, just maybe I could feel you close to me again. But I couldn't. And then when I heard…" he stopped, his voice breaking. "When…when I heard you, screaming my name and trying to get through the crowd, hearing you say 'No, please, he's my friend…oh dear God, no…' I wanted to jump up and tell you it was all going to be okay. But you had to believe me, John…" he looked up, not bothering to wipe away the tears falling down his face. He looked down and cleared his throat. "I've hated myself ever since, John. I will never forgive myself for leaving you…I, I love you John, and I realized it so long ago and after I fell…all I could think of was you. I am so, so, eternally, sorry for what I have done to you."

I still stood, rooted in my place, replaying everything that had just happened. Dear God, this wasn't happening. He, Sherlock Holmes, the asexual sociopath was saying that he loved me? It wasn't right, I couldn't…

And then the memories started to replay themselves. Seeing Sherlock standing in that abandoned classroom, about to take the pill that would end his life, and being unable to do anything except pull out my gun. Then again, seeing Sherlock fighting with the Asian killer and wanting to pull the man off him and beat him down. And again, watching him get excited and happy with the case of the bomber, and feeling so angry and mystified that he actually didn't care about the people, and yet I knew he did. He always did. I could almost feel him ripping off my clothes to get the bomb away from me in the pool house and wanting to make sure I was okay, asking over and over.

I saw him at his worst moments, like when Moriarty was pretending to be Richard Brooke, and the look of fury on Sherlock's face as he cowered on the staircase in the reporter's house. How he threw a thug out of a window multiple times for laying a hand on dear Mrs. Hudson. I saw him yell at the poor school administrator after the children had been kidnapped, and I saw him be as merciless as the sea. And I remembered him in his softest moments, making sure everyone was okay, and telling me that I was, truly, his only friend. All the times we'd laughed together, from walking to get Chinese and again in Buckingham palace where he wore only a bed sheet, to when he stole the ashtray. He was always there, making me laugh and the two of us laughing together. And I realized, though I had been denying it, I'd felt something for him too. I'd always denied it, bringing it up to whomever would listen that the two of us weren't a couple, and yet, when he'd first held my hand as we ran from the police, and when he'd just kissed me, only second's ago, I realized I'd only been lying to myself the whole time. And that was easier then I'd expected.

Sherlock took my silence as stubbornness. He sighed and his shoulder's sagged. "I'm sorry, John," he whispered. "Even I can't ask you to forgive me, but, please know, I'm so sorry." He turned towards the door and started to leave.

"Sherlock, wait," I started out of my stupor and stumbled after him. He turned to face me. "Wait. Please. I have one last question." He only looked at me, so I continued. "Were…were you in my room last night?"

He nodded and looked down and murmured something so quietly I could barely make the words out. "…I wanted my violin."

I scoffed and shook my head, an incredulous laugh bursting from my chest. "You bastard," I growled and grabbed him, pulling him into a hug. "You…stupid…bloody…bastard, you are," I grumbled into his chest, and then the water works began. Slowly at first, but then I could only let go and cry. Sherlock, shocked at first, slowly wound his arms around me in an awkward yet comforting hug as I sobbed into his chest. He hesitantly rubbed my back and I felt him kiss the top of my head.

"I missed you," I whispered. "I really did miss you so much. I hate you, you bastard, but dear God, I'm so happy you're back."

He signed and hiccupped, and I realized that he was crying too. "I know, John. I'm so sorry…I'm so sorry…" He continued to whisper his apologies as we sank down onto the couch. He held me against his chest, as I shuddered and shook against his thin frame. "I'm so sorry…I'm so sorry…"

"I'm still mad at you," I whispered. "I'm always going to be mad. Don't you ever leave me again."

He leaned over and kissed my cheek. "No, John. You won't have to worry anymore. I'll never leave again. I'm back, John. I promise."

I woke up then, panting and confused. A ghost of a memory washed over me, but I couldn't remember what. The room was dark and I blinked rapidly, trying to make out what had just gone on. Sherlock had been here, we'd kissed, he was back…But where was he now?

Misery crashed over me—could I have only been dreaming? Then I heard a soft, delicate snore and I realized where I was…where _we _were. Sherlock was asleep, leaning against the arm rest of the couch, his left hand dangling off the edge as he snored, his left leg half hanging off the couch to make room. I was laying between his legs, leaning against his chest, and I realized his right arm was wound tightly across my waist, holding me to him, as if to reassure that I was there…or to reassure me that he was there.

I looked around, still panting, and slowly closed my eyes and leaned back against Sherlock, taking a deep breath and relaxing back against him before I fell asleep. This was where Mrs. Hudson found us several hours later.

I didn't have a single nightmare that night, nor for many nights that came to pass after the fact. And it was all thanks to the bloody git known as Sherlock Holmes. Every night, now, he catches my hand and holds it, always murmuring the words I've grown to love.

"I'm back, John."

* * *

**Well, that's that. Now I continue to wait for Season 3 of Sherlock. Oi vey! **


End file.
